The Cellarer did not look up when the door opened. In his experience the people who came down those stairs fell into two groups: the ones who wanted a drink, and the ones who wanted him dead. Both tended to arrive thirsty.

“We’re closed,” he said.

The stranger took off one glove, then the other, and laid them on the bar like a pair of small, tired animals. “You’ve been closed for eleven years,” she said. “I’ll have whatever’s still open.”